“It’s evident.” His sister spoke dryly. “I believe it won’t serve, Robin.”
Robin raised one mobile eyebrow. “What’s this? You’ve nervous qualms, my Peter? Faith, I thought there were no nerves in you. I stand in no danger of discovery that I can see.”
“None, child. You’re incomparable,” Prudence said frankly. “You’ve more female graces than ever I could lay claim to, even in my rightful petticoats. I believe my sense of propriety is offended.”
Came a flash into the blue eyes, and a head thrown up a little. “Oh, do you doubt me? Merci du compliment!”
Prudence was unmoved. “Ay, that’s the old gentleman in you. It’s a fine gesture.”
The chin came down; the mouth tightened a moment, then relaxed into a laugh. “You’d enrage a saint, Prue. Well, let us have it.”
Memories of the night’s reflections chased one another across Prudence’s mind. “It’s trickery. You become an impostor.”
“I became one when I entered first into these damned uncomfortable clothes, child. Are you answered?”
Impossible to put those hazy ideas into verbal form. “I suppose so,” said Prudence slowly. “Do you know, I begin to dislike myself?”
Robin looked at her, then put an arm about her waist. “Well, say the word. I’ll take you to France, and we’ll ha’ done with all this.”